half-eaten blueberry

the peculiarity of petals has been the mannequin of muse. in this pearly winter night. a certain trenchancy. on a moon whisper. i turned on the radio. static-filled. for an hour and three minutes. motioned to the magpie made of cardboard, resting by the nightstand. and peeked at the moon. and smiled. and crawled. and howled. and bathed in the light of the milk eponym peculiarities. you look drugged, melanie. i say to the lunatic. and the stars. and the cabaret crystals. the jingling prisms. and the glass flakes on silica. and the diamond beds on crates and rocks. and snarls and gawks of your uncharacteristic perfidy. leaning over, i said. i want to send a half-eaten blueberry. parceled in lead. to which, you nod. reverberate and resonate in ripples of the cloud waves. in chronicles of your luminescence. and trace and track the vagaries of your twenty nine trimesters of aborted pregnancies. back and forth, in the uniformity of a cyclic periodicity. i became an animal of the irrational. i cannot explain. i cannot piece together the chronology of my math. acumen and satiety, in check. only to say i have this lurch, a longing for what i cannot know. to sing dialogues of the dead metaphysicist and the teeming unconscious. in jars, pouring mayonnaise and shellac. in the diffusion paradigm of inconstancy. and in the relativity of the time continuum, i want to build a ladder. that remains beyond perish. toying with an indelibility of the non-conventional. no statuette or portraiture of a posed smile or magnificence is necessary. it is in the doing, this preservation of the character of self. to do something, often times you exclaim. i want to do something, what should i do? how you leave the trace, through your effort and whims, is for you to decide. to be the cultist glamor doll, or the theorist philosopher. the barbarian or the plague, is your fancy. what matters in terms, the humility and pomp. the machinations of your skin sonnets. the narrative of your genitals. a legacy of blood blossoms. a petal work of frames. and paint. and juvenile plasticine. mold and remold. give shape and breaths. and historicize the fetishization of the love tentacles. of the moon epilogues. of the lunatic rogue and the insanity of the schizophrenic. building castles and navigating, through a time of a century. to live through an annihilation of the ice widows.

to live, melanie. where do did you start?

a broken theory of shriek 7

the birth of an emotion, darwininan or neo-darwinian. i do not know. a benefit for our survival. an adaptation to co-opt and co-operate. a tongue flicker maturity. a determinant, we inject and infuse for the benefit of our race, our species. in networks and mesh. in groups and cohorts of narrowed sentimentality. seeking and beseeching. wanting, and fretting. crooning and writhing in song and tears. you hug your soul. touch your skin. dispassionate, cold, icy and frigid. it's time, you say. when wasn't? it was, is and may be a labyrinth of fatalism. i seek shelter in souls, and lyrics of song. and bricks by the river bed. in dams and shells of careless luminosity. in lapidary verbs and disabled faculty. what is it you say about the power of your capability? i am incapable, may be. with a sagging hopefulness of fruition in the domain of the reciprocals. it is not arithmetic, i said. why do you compare? there are no rules. no cues. no safe harbor for the mechanics of your interrupted sunday surprise. holding wigs, and moon beams. reading and fine-tuning a life of wish, dream. modified success. mutated parts of an invidious bias. how did it feel to love?

diseased with a tenderness and a deep, lesioned existence. how long can you long? for a while. how long a while? a century? a day? it takes time, you explain. and what if there wasn't a one? because of the misshapenness of my physiognomy. the counterintuition of my sexual fervor. after all, the physicality is the draw, isn't it? and then, the nature of blinks. the volume of shrieks. the howl and screech of frames, and beds, and porcelain jugs and steaming kettles. the first approach of the love navigation, is a lust for the frame of the body. you know, i think of creation sometimes. and if god made man, then why did he or she decide the gradient of the physical external -why X stuns and Y repulses. the prettiness-ugliness imbalance. why would your god pick and choose and create this divide? so that the individual may suffer from an unknown outcome or consequence of action/ inaction -is this a reasonable conjecture? what a shameful equation you have composed, i cannot say. this lookist, classist, sexist panoply of the century micro-cosmos, an adulterated social normality perhaps. if fatalism and your god's creation ended in the architecture of every man -why the ugly obese woman who regrets her fate. the majority expect the archetype goddess and what is the outlet? a social suicide and despondence of can i ever choose? will i ever love? the same with man, the sexual whims of let us pick and choose and point to the being of looks and beauty and then proceed to learn the man. think with the real, and not your ideology trains. to a point, where you ask. who declared the rationality of man? i see no trace. i see no hue or mold of the reason tree. for you tried, you say. you tried the sex sites, the mainstream, the bar strips, the online clique. and what worked? the web of shame. the soulful rejection of the lucky elite. you may not be one. you are not the one.

take two.

about the baby

you sighed at last and said to me, i want a passion ring, a butter bowl and a baby. 6 pm. your husband away. your indications, a plenty. a chilly north evening in your manhattan apartment. you took me by the bed and said to me, we fuck here. know how it feels? 

disgusting.

but i want a baby. a toy, you explain. for the proof of a youth womb architect. to experience the dictionary slogan of maternity and suckle-feed. i want a suckle. and shove it in her face. the anger over your motherhood and the complications are engraved on your breast. you tidy in the cups and pour honey over. the integrity of my genomics, i do not care. never will. but i want to converse with a happy lesbian surrogate. and talk diapers and perfumery. and pretend excuse. relieve from accusations of my mottled hormone strips. justify tardiness for my baby needed milk. people usher sympathy. i need sympathy and contradiction. and do because i suppose. it is an expectation of social sovereignty. a yardstick of reign power. me. a woman of vagina smells and lipstick blush rouge desirability. a super-imposition among the feminine ballads, a status-seeker want worth. come here and touch my nipples. you see what i say? they are painted. and to enhance, i sometimes stick a few mothballs in there. 

if i could have a baby, i may want it to perish aside. while sleeping. while drugged. so it may never learn the anatomy of art or the history of political philosophy. or the antics of the spiritual abyss. or the taste of cum. relieve in the invisibility of an unattained, depreciated identity. what if it were a trisexual costermonger? i shudder to envision the meretricious child. a souvenir of sex. a prototype of an idiot mother and broken hymens. me. a woman of finesse and gore. of failure and lust. an alcoholic youth. a garbage bag product of the whore pedigree. i rose to this status of subdue and filth. it was rape. come feel my lips. the story never leaves.

since i could and never would, come to my flesh. touch and breathe the pallor of my cold, unconvincing body. he never knew, and never will. i rid my womb. belated life. at 9 pm. saturday night. 1986. 

office space

windowless. art filler. my office space.

seeing i

there is no case of the cursive left in your child. you ask, constantly. tell me what do you think lemonade? what do you think of the parallel case of influenza? what do you think of a herd of dead children in the graves? what do you think of fire and flame? are you scared of flames and leather? are you the hypocrite on hudson, blowing peppermint leaves on china pots? on your sex commercial, you choose to write good looking, rich, well endowed. seeking love...looking to share special moments. i aim to please. and what of love lemonade, you think you can buy?

seeing i. seeing the olive tree by the river, you make music on your soul. churned to the magpies. knocking on doors. fleeing lives. splurging tips. treading thresholds of the innocent pretense. you want to love. you cannot find. you never will if you crude as i. if you chisel sweat and de-cloud the extent of your intentions. can you say -in another soul, what do you seek? who do you seek? a model ideal? when you build the archetype soul-mate, show me your salience and identifiers. to say, this is my twin -let's lionize the character of otherness and myth. would you love a twin in the perfection of literature? would you precipitate your business and sacrifice? what is your bastardy in love -have you licked the shallow to learn the worth of self? this is what i deserve. and what do you deserve? to say every man and woman deserves happiness -can you elaborate and say, to what extent and how? to idealize -how does one get to that equi-valent happiness? what of opportunity and economics, and love patches? to deserve -who gives this poignancy? what exits in the sexual labyrinth of attraction and biology. what creates the polar circular and rounded-ness of the give-take loveable? a deck of cards. a game of bluff. and the fashionable smile. the dainty hair and the narrow-lip doll-work. a passion drink of honeycombs. and breathe and scrape and scrub and smile. and bow to the lilt of the lyrical and divine. you seek youth and sandpaper hymnals. but what of old and time? what of the churning clock of forty nine steps and emerald frames. and the checkered mountain anecdotes of divorce and death? in your love you seek. build and rebuild. and deconstruct. the frame of eyes. the poly-gene. the spectacle of whims. 

pop 1280

Lady Bancroft. a glittering eye. a popping mind of true sartorial. an elegant chic. sequined tassels. a vermilion cheek. stiletto boost. your feminine in flames. watching spanish porn. orgasm thirteen times.

pedophile mary

your analysis of january has made me wonder about the existence of my ambition. all morning, i sat by my coffee table and smelled the rays of sunshine streaming past the carousel, the aroused magnolias. the piccolo players on cloud boats. how erotic, they fingered. and salivated. profusely. so endearingly. i hugged the clouds. feeling them. licking them. folding them in to the cusp of my carnallity. you know bubble cheese, i want to pinch the precipice of your dandelion cheeks. and henna your brain with the poetry of peacocks. and tape on your groin, a ribbon of lips. so that you may kiss your groin, in tenderness and bemuse. and caress your skin. your leather board tapestry of death and deed. reading war. and peace. and the japanese bliss of the otiose war. on your opium leaf, you sat and sang. bellowbee bellowbee, can we try vanilla?

you know, valkyrie. your handmaiden-ness and transience -make me wonder. make me sad. make me scream behind your vagina wafers. make me wonder, were i the one with breasts and fish, could i trickle and trail in the spiral of the father-dom? comb my beard and scream and cry. with a throbbing mind and a failing ego. you incarcerate the flesh of lips. brand them with paraffin from a quarter century at most. and then you sit by my side. and say to me. you are and will be. a throwaway piece. used around. never had. never given. this is your destiny. the people-pleaser. the role-player. the demi-quartet of family existence. the could-be possibility but always knew. there was the duo trio quartet of the violinist and the carer. sometime, bellowbee, abort your love and set free into the world of the cold careening butterflies. flutter about in your incongruency. you never fit -you fucking faggot. you never fit -you over-brewed whore. you never fit -because you are old, because you are blue, and your veins were mine. and we fought and ignored. for a long long time. and you ran to the statuette of your virgin soul. your mary of god. and you prayed and prayed. and then you said, in words and sweat -you saw jesus in me. i was your god. in an investiture of thoughts and prayers. rosary in one hand. and a letter in the other. i was ten. what was i to think? you pedophile. i wished you dead. and now i want to see. where you are. what you do. your double-life with your husband wife. the pedophile agape. 

being i

for milk and honey. and the green page litany. your vagina rots. melts in mouths. brewing cherries. weighing lust. the great american titty fuck began.

 

your pill deviance caroline. those jelly breasts and silicones. medicating erotics. belt pebbles. strap the loss of manhood and sanity. 50 c xxx.

art: d casimir

bluebird and the sopranos

 hi there bluebird. it's new years day. wake up wake up and suffocate... 

on the highline by the piers, you made me meet. the poet in you. no strictures, no prohibitions.  smelling of sweat. touching your brain, and smelling your bones. your eyes, focused. a deep maroon or a tricky magenta, i do not remember. there was a subdued barbarism on the agility of your flutter. a haven of remorse. a mystic bird. bloodless and hypoxic. you couldn't dream. you couldn't speak. your philosophies of sex and truth were buried in a scoop. in a paper bag of cold, sinewy ribbons. in folds of a transaction. so commercial, so bizarre. all you could say...marymount, i feel pain, a deep resounding ache, so deep so vast so diffuse, i cannot breathe, i cannot dream, i cannot live. you proceeded to re-ascertain the uselessness of idols. plagiarism of the divine. a shrill melancholy of unanswered desire. god is dead, you repeat, seventeen times in a row. and leave the pier. i've not seen you ever since. 

the evolution of pain is a wonder muse of the literate. the raving academic of the clinic. extols the advance of the digital age. a mythography of hormones, and nerves, the chromosomes and the genes. and yet, the origin of the sensation -no one knows. is it physical law binding cell to cell, corroding in a harrow of friction and heat? at which point of contact does pain arise? piercing who? what? why? harrowing ache of what? these constructs of expressionism -so abstract and meaningless. inexplicable yet conventional. prevalent in the geography of the dream catcher and the fatal. the morphine highs. baked analgesics. to think of it, to fix a rootless sensation. no spot to pinpoint. like aroma. the origin of smell, in bonds you say. but what of bonds? wherein lies the origin of this interconversion, from the poly-atom to sensation? and even, of love and lust. of spasm and guilt. of morality and the dream god. of the quaint compositions of wax crafters. of the marble brokers in the museum yards, that spit and choke in the taint of servitude. what engenders the necessity of feeling? if this is the whim of evolutionary game play -why was there a world to produce and repeat? and if all is god. why your god did decide there should be man? and woman? and certain animals? what faith or judgment or form of the creative was necessary to create the universality of the universe? a sudden decision of the apparent creator to self-convince of its capability? how deluded. how derisive. to decide the manifestation of wax tailors and vaginas. the culpability of the testicles and nipple tops. the restrictions and strata on monumental pieces of this acculturated creation. to build by hand another hand of void? to create emptiness and soil? what puissance do we recreate? 

hi there bluebird. it's new years day. wake up wake up and suffocate...

link stain 12

 

elusive and evasive, i want to crawl underneath the blanket of my pleaching unconsciousness. my harem boats and river tales are adrift. aloft on clouds of a powdery petal work. staining patterns of honey rings on blood velvet. exchange promises to the sub-terrain of promise and guilt and lust and resolve. a folding pitch of closure, enclosed within a year of days and seconds. parroted and cretinized. revised and rehearsed. broken into pieces of water crystals. when you say, in the year anew, there is a new resolve. you fool yourself. you imagine a transcendence of your identity without a transcendence. an illusion of time and a watercress dam. ringing bells and fractures of plangent celluloids. those ignitions of sprint, those sparkles of whim, those glints of the stochastic mutability of your evolving identity will remain the same. an excuse to revel, indeed. who need not exhilarate at the stroke of a dozen quarters, weeping behind the passage of mechanical flumes? in a transitional rhetoric, there is faith and confidence. there is dividend to the effort conscience preciousness of self-worth. the humanizing is a dainty awning of the mind parody. a synaptic chemistry of the dopamines, the catecholamines, the arduous pleats of time and effort and favoritism of the in-house. what is in this house of self-evolution is a remonstrance from the microcosm of the convention web-lock. the moment of a dozen is not your hour. your proceedings bleach every second of every minute of every milli-hour. for the pessimism of my self, it is not a gray muffle-band of an indigent whisperer. it is a retort to the entrepreneur. of catechism, lust and truth.

the monopoly of sentiments at the turn of a night. renew. rebuild. you say of the crass perspective of your immaturity. an inchoate framework. you look back at an empty trail. you want to build the brick continuum. a spectral fantasy of rainbows and the real. the tangible and the bizarre. you figurine of bronze -my honey ring. the interface of change is a linger. 

poppy monroe #0

poppy bean. it's christmas time. the red and ash. and green and mist. and truffle bake and merry mix are laced and curled in whirls of swirls. the fairy tales of snow and gin. on table tops and mistletoes. you kiss the ice. uncurl your smell. a delicate aroma wafts through the rooms of bleeding alabaster. you loosen your grip of the conscious hegemony of mind chronicles. engaged in piercings, chelates and stars of brandings. your modified body: a missing breast, a missing flood of bouncing testicles. i want you to come over and sit by me. and tell me your motivations for eating hair, combing your brows, and painting elevators. tell me why you add red pepper flakes to your cappuccino cups. why you photograph yourself, pissing on art and old vinyl records. and wear a pendant of blades and a strip of brown varnished leather. why you sit by the stairwell and count your tear drops. your normalcy and muse on existentialism horrify my bones. they make me cringe and cry and scratch my nipples with long sticks of wax crayons. i want to talk to you about the gossip aunt on the alleyway, who died last week of pneumonia. and her paintings of Eros, she dedicated to the birds.

you should consider the anarchist, poppy bean. the rebel new yorker. who fought to strive and play, with delicacy a home-building phenomenon. to migrate and stall. move a few feet, and pause. and then you learn to whisper first. and then to alphabetize and then to fetishize and then to revolt. to vociferate and explicate to the highest authority your value and worth. your bastard roots mean nothing in this whirlwind of the cut throat. no one cares your handicap or the slanders of your oddities. no one believes in the circuitry of your pleas and intentions if you cannot weigh your worth, in value and assets and paper seals. if you say, ballacave, i am a happy soul... they will question your happiness. what have you done to display this happiness? why will i believe, you are at peace. why will i believe you are happy. at which juncture of this living spiral do you intersect a satiety with happiness? is it the seed of vitality, your continuum of genomic integrity that brings you partial joy? or a make-believe philanthropy; this is what i should? on your emotionality compass, you tell yourself, baby pea, others are happy...come on be happy yourself...come on. and yet, what makes you think the others are happy, i do not know. what makes you contend is an allegory you will answer yourself. but the answer each time, will be a different one. you know why? here's the simple premise. time is a variable. not a constant. if life depends on time, can you deduce that life is variable? and if life is variable, can you go back and find the same answer each time? happiness differs, baby pea. for the second, tell yourself, the firmness of my anatomy is real. the mind is a dot, a flicker.

the kiss avenue

 

derrida.

remember the sleazy sassy kiss by the window mall last saturday afternoon? felt perky. and cheery. and fluttery. and feeble. and windowed. and so so sexual. that moisture on your elegance, your double lips and drummer goods. the touch of saliva flare. my tongue. your tongue. speaking gibberish in sonnets. in song and rhythm. a violent outburst of your falsetto strings. your squirm. your almond pear eyes. and your dizzying melody of jungle tunes. the wild preachers of the parish caves. and your hands. so firm and confident. butter soft. the odor of honey margarine oozing from your sweat spectacle. a crystallinity to your brow play and choral jingle. the bells of your pivoting dailies. they strike in chord. accord. like blueberry blossoms and cherry flowers. a photographic smile that drives me wild. folding refolding stroking in hormones. layer on layer. biting the hair frame of a tender anatomy. the water songs and moon enclaves. grouching and slouching in the girth of saccharin blue pupils. dilate and contract in the clutch of a serpentine slenderness. you blow off the candles on the bronze candle stands. and lick the scales off the molten wax puppets, creaming in layers of affinity and incongruity. and back to the kiss. in my face and through my eyes. my paraffin front melts in the abyss of a wild romantic pallor. so wild and ferocious. your aggression, you solder on the hinge of your bones. unseen by day, exposed by dusk. i love this plenitude of varnish on the stave-art atheist relic of your ossified identity. beyond mold, derrida. beyond mold. what did i say by the river? beware of water. in the fluid and atoms of thirst frenzy orgasm. what quenches. and pleases. and teases. and wets. can kill the bob of your transient living. what frills. and evokes and darts and swings. this water bed of water cress and lotus leaves. crenulate and pacific. i dwell on your tongue. before it rains and sieves a cacophony of pleasure-pain continuum. rapidly mystifying. and rising and humming. and pacing in cycles of androgen steroids. an acquiescence of the bawdy flavor of adrenaline topography. derrida. we kissed. and screamed. and cremated the tempest of swirl novels and pepper. and rented a pledge of foe pivots in flesh. and pander to the servitude of unlearned instincts. this need. this desire. this deed. derrida, you made me burst.

cloud #27

let's talk about the time it hurt. playing mandolins in a wine bar. i am the esoteric. but i want you. i don't even know who you are. come to me. please. please. i'm begging of you. come to me and hold my finger tops and sing a rhyme of confidence. into this empty soul of dispense. this shoebox matchbox cradle of failure. only loving son of cherish desire. of the trinkets of your tears. frozen on the canvas of the water sketch life you and i were supposed to live.

we have hallucinated the beauty of your soul. taken into the awkwardness of lust. i am a whore catcher whore picker, writing stories of sex on my skin. one by one. to belong. to believe. to lust. to escape the oppression of a tendril frailty. to ascertain the beauty of the physical mold. that's all you ask. and that's all you give. a whore in disguise, this pearl of mine. and from this discrepancy of the personalities of man. you look at me from a far. and kick me aside. and talk about the urgency of your deliberation and penetrative wonder kind. for here and now, then evaporate to the back door alleyway. in pretense of the unknown knowledge. of this multiple utility of sexual decor. it's all about the physicality of fracture. the physicality of the appeal and appearance. hey there handsome...you looking? blank. maybe? what for? to fuck. want to come? the ascent. alright. walk away. the display was enough. this momentary praise of the woolcotts. the cotton of your lubrication. so light. so feverishly light and warm and moist. strip your shame. your embarrassment. and say, i am the wall street-er. i am the accountant of the fund frolic finance tycoon. but who cares? your subversive banality. your dispensable trove of lies and annoyances, we have learned to accept.

warhol. your floating clouds. and silver spoon. and soup, babe. what were you thinking? could your imagination come floating lies. hold my hand. and whisper to the soap bubbles by the mandolins?

.

miss jane and the dover petals. tell me why, you lather your groin with hysteria and magnesium. scrub and scrub. till your flesh bleeds a spasm of bees. a swarm of the festive crawls beneath the fundamental xylophone menage. you despise god. you were right. tell me more. from where do you milk the ketchup? this is a prologue to the third layer anatomy of principles and music. lace-lover and the sexism, hand in hand. give me three and a half gallons of blood.